The New Model

"I'm telling you, bro . . . it's meant to happen. We both know what
he wants. We have the means to provide it. Nobody else is available
. . ."

"It will never work! Nobody's going to believe I'm a woman. They
sure as hell aren't going to believe me as some kind of fashion
model!"

I leaned back in my chair and grinned. "I think I can solve that
little problem Josh."

*********

Everybody calls me "PJ". Just what those initials stand for depends
on the time of day, and the day of the week. After six PM and on most
weekends it stands for "Peter James". But from nine to five on
weekdays it stands for "Pamela Jane". This rather odd set of
circumstances arose out of a desperation attempt to land a job as a
graphic artist with my brother Josh's advertising firm. At that time
his firm (Whitman, North and Arjer or "W.N.&A.") was only hiring
women. Using a marvelous bit of technology called a "Nu-Gen
Transgender Appliance, Model I2000S I was able to fool the powers that
be down at "W. N. & A." into believing I was a young, upcoming,
female graphic artist and thereby land the job.

To be sure, there were a series of misadventures along the way, but
over the past few months I think I've settled into my new professional
persona quite well. The job is challenging and very rewarding. And
it's a job I truly love. All my life I've wanted to be a professional
artist. The sacrifice of masquerading as a woman on a daily basis has
not been too much of a price to pay.

Times are good down at W.N.&A. My first work for the firm
involved landing a prestigious major client. Close on the heels of
that success, W.N.&A. quickly went from a sleepy little ad agency
quietly fading into the mists of obscurity to a very sought after
company. Offers from other high-class clients started to flow in.

We were on the way up. The sky seemed to be the limit.

Then the eccentric but fabulously successful fashion designer
"Giancarlo of Venice" contracted us to promote his new line of
lingerie.

And for a period of three weeks it seemed like my whole world had
gone nuts.

*********

It began on a hopeful, fairly innocent note.

I was sitting in my studio one Thursday morning lost in artistic
reverie, twirling a long tress of my faux golden mane around a
shapely, well-manicured finger.

Well, actually . . . I was trying to figure out what kind of a scam
I was going to pull today down at the water cooler when the Football
Pool gathered to debate this weekend's pro games.

It's like this: W.N.&A. has taken some steps recently to
overhaul their horribly outmoded, and very sexist, hiring
policies. But there were still quite a few Neanderthal "knuckle
draggers" lurking about in dark back offices. A good selection of the
most "macho" of these throwbacks congregated at the water cooler (
perhaps "watering hole" would be more apt) every mid-morning to thump
their chests and debate the latest athletic exploits of their favorite
teams. That a betting pool should form was a foregone conclusion.

I was walking by one morning (en femme of course) just as the
debate grew rather heated concerning a certain team's chances against
the defending Super Bowl Champions in next Sunday's game. As I passed,
I opined casually that I rather liked the challenger's chances.

I'll wager you could have heard the bellows of male indignity for a
hundred yards.

What did I . . . a lowly female . . . know about the noble,
intricate, masculine undertaking that was professional football? How
dare I voice an opinion to these sage experts on this ancient and
hallowed diversion?

Something snapped.

Now understand; I like pro football. I follow it closely. I could
have engaged these jerks on their own terms and held my own. But I
guess I was getting tired of the patronization.

Petite Pamela folded her hands behind her tight little butt, gazed
through her long lashes at the assembled hairy apes and cooed that any
team who's quarterback had as cute a butt as the challenger's was
bound to win.

Howls of injured male pride. What a senseless, illogical
. . . female opinion! Would I care to loose some money on a bet based
on that outrageous claim?

The following Monday, I was $32 ahead and the "War of the Gridiron"
was fairly joined.

So, anyway, there I was sitting at my desk, playing with my hair
and weighing the odds on this Sunday's Seattle-Denver contest. Denver
was a perennial favorite, but I thought Seattle had a really good shot
this week, provided they could keep their QB healthy. Maybe I could
scam a six-point spread on Seattle by playing distracted and letting
word get around that it was "that time of the month" for Pamela.

At that moment, my secretary Carl stuck his head in my door. (Yes,
I have a male secretary, the only one in the whole firm. I think it's
a little joke by Emma Huddleston, W.N.&A.'s personnel manager and
the only other one in the firm besides my brother who's in on Pamela's
secret)

"Mr. Arjer wants to see you in his office in ten minutes
Ms. Wright."

"Did he say why?"

"No Ma'am. Just to tell you to, and I quote; `Get your little
ass up here most pronto.' "

"Okay. Thanks Carl. Oh . . . Carl. Who do you like in the
Seattle-Denver game this Sunday?"

"Denver . . . all the way."

"Why?"

" `Cuz Seattle can't stop the run to save their lives. Denver
will pick `em apart."

"You're nuts! Look at the Hawk's stats on first down defense
against the run! Why, in the last four games they've . . ." But Carl,
knowing my penchant for running on about my favorite topic, had wisely
remembered some typing and already disappeared back to his desk.

*********

Josh Arjer is my half-brother by my late mother's
remarriage. Nobody in the firm knows about our relationship. (Except
for Mrs. Huddleston that is.). He'd been made a full partner in the
firm based on "his" work in landing that prestigious client I
mentioned. Now he had his own suite of offices on one corner of our
floor and his own secretarial staff to attend to his every
whim. Before the events that I'm about to describe, I'd been a bit
jealous and angry with him for his success on the shoulders of my
work. That's all changed . . . my jealousy and anger I mean.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

At the appointed hour I arrived in the waiting room of Josh's
office. His bubble-headed blonde bimbo of a secretary deigned to
notice me and to trouble herself to point to one of the couches
against the wall.

"Mr. Arjer has an important phone call. He'll be with you in a
minute."

I sat on the couch, primly crossed my legs and wondered what our
mother would think about Josh's choice in women if she were alive to
see it. At that moment, the outer door opened and Beth DiAngelo, our
newest copywriter walked in and was directed to the same couch I
currently occupied.

Once more, I felt that little stab of shame that I sometimes felt
when Beth was around. When I'd first come to work at W.N.&A., I'd
only seen Beth as a scheming little wench who was trying to use sex to
get ahead in the company. I've subsequently come to know her a lot
better and to appreciate the lengths to which she had been forced in
her attempt to get ahead in this still very male-dominated world of
business. I'd badly misjudged her, but I'm pleased to say that I've
subsequently mended my ways. Beth is now one of my best friends and my
only "gal pal" down here at W.N.&A. Yes, I'd come a long way in my
open-mindedness . . . Haven't I? I glanced over at the blonde seated
at the receptionist's desk. "Bubble-headed blonde bimbo"? I glanced
down over the counterfeit breasts pressing against the silk of my
blouse to the skirt that lay against my elegant, shapely, sexy
. . . utterly contrived legs.

"Judge not, lest ye be judged." Good words to remember.

Beth glanced at the door to Josh's office, then sighed and looked
around for something to occupy herself while we waited to be allowed
into "The Presence".

"Seattle?! You're crazy girlfriend! Denver will push them all over
the field!"

I sputtered "What do you mean? They've got a good chance!"

"Oh girl . . . I've had three dollar pantyhose that was better at
stopping runs!"

The door to Josh's office opening and his imperious "Get in here,
both of you" saved me.

*********

Josh was pacing back and forth in front of his massive desk when
Beth and I entered. "Sit down you two. I just got off the phone with
new accounts and we've been handed what I'm given to understand is a
golden opportunity. Have either of you ever heard of some fashion
designer named Gian . . . Gian . . ." (He stopped pacing and glanced
down at his notepad.) " . . . Giancarlo . . . `of Venice' no
less?"

A little squeak of surprise confirmed that Beth certainly had. I
glanced over at her and saw her eyes had gotten as big as dinner
plates. "You mean . . . the Giancarlo? Giancarlo himself
?!" Josh raised an eyebrow. "Yes `the Giancarlo himself' I don't
imagine there's more than one fashion fairy with a name like
that."

Beth's hands had flown to her mouth. "Are you saying
. . . Mr. Arjer . . . do you mean . . . you want us . . . you want
me . . . to work on an account for Giancarlo of
Venice?!" Josh's eyebrows had just about crawled off the top of
his head. "Well Beth, it's either you or we take Silverman off the
tire ad account. Somehow I think you're a bit more familiar with what
we're going to be advertising than Silverman. At least I certainly
hope you are."

Beth had dissolved into soft, panicky "ohmigod, ohmigod"'s I'd
heard of Giancarlo. (You couldn't read a woman's magazine these days
and not hear of Giancarlo. And I read a lot of woman's magazines. Call
it `professional development'.) So we had a shot at an account for
a big name fashion designer? Certainly that was exciting news. But
like Josh, I was a bit put off by Beth's near hysteria. To divert my
brother's increasingly obvious ire I asked, "Just what are we going to
be advertising Mr. Arjer? What product line? Evening wear? Sports
clothes?"

Josh tore his eyes of the floundering Beth and for a moment I
caught that evil little glint that I knew so well. "Lingerie Ms
Wright. We're going to be introducing Giancarlo's new line of lingerie
to the world. And since you and Ms. DiAngelo are going to be singing
it's praises, I've made arrangements for several of the signature
items to be delivered to your homes tomorrow. I want you to become
`intimately' familiar with them for our first meeting with
Giancarlo next Thursday."

Beth was hyperventilating . . . Josh was leering . . . and I was
wondering if my karma had finally caught up with me.

(And speaking of karma, the final score was Denver:28,
Seattle:3)

*********

The next day (Friday) turned out to be a very . . . bizarre
. . . day at W.N.&A. Word had gotten out about Giancarlo's new
line of lingerie and all the secretaries seemed to believe that the
Second Coming had been announced. There were dozens of little knots of
women speaking in whispered tones, comparing notes about their choices
for updating their "unmentionable" drawers and accomplishing very
little else. It was a relief to leave the office at five.

When I arrived home, all I wanted was to draw a hot bath and slip
out of Pamela. I'd tossed my keys and purse on the kitchen counter,
had kicked off my heels and was unbuttoning my blouse when the
doorbell rang. Muttering curses and re-buttoning my blouse I padded
stocking-footed to the door and flung it open.

"What?"

A team of uniformed, ARMED couriers stood on my doorstep, their
leader holding a rather large box.

"Ms. Pamela Wright?"

I swallowed my surprise and nodded. The leader looked me up and
down and then asked, "Do you have some identification, ma'am?" Again I
could only nod mutely and head to my purse for my Visa credit
card. (All Pamela's photo I.D. consisted of credit cards, the kind
with your picture and signature on the face. I've got a whole stack of
them.) The courier examined the card, then examined me, then nodded to
one of his partners who handed me a clipboard. "Sign on line seven
please." I complied, the leader handed me the box, tipped his uniform
cap and wished me a pleasant evening before the lot of them closed
ranks and trooped away.

I stood there in my stocking feet, hefting the box and wondering
what national security information I'd just been handed. Then I
remembered;

Giancarlo's lingerie.

Taking the box into my kitchen and using a pair of scissors to VERY
carefully cut the tape holding on the top, I was soon looking into a
box containing some of the laciest underwear I've ever seen.

So. This was what all the fuss was about. I lifted out the top
item, which proved to be a full-length peignoir and turned it front
and back in my hands. It was nice, there was no question of that. Part
beautiful rose-colored silk, part sheer bodice and lots of lace, it
was very lovely. But it hardly took my breath away. Shrugging,
I decided that the best thing was to get this over with and try on the
various items. Taking the box I trudged off to my bedroom. I slipped
out of my work clothes and underwear and then slid the peignoir over
my head letting the spaghetti straps fall naturally over my
shoulders. I fluffed out my hair and turned to examine the effect in
the full-length mirror I kept in the corner.

I don't think I have the words for what I saw in that mirror.

The hem of the peignoir rode just high enough to reveal a pair of
dainty feet. The gown ascended in shimmering rose colored perfection
to the gentle swell of her hips then curved back in a graceful arc to
accentuate her narrow waist. The silk rose for a few more inches only
to melt into gentle swirls and flows of delicate lace . . . inviting
the eye higher till finally it was drawn, naturally, to two breasts
lovingly caressed within sheer, glimmering fabric, their nipples
surrounded by delicate lace roses and vines which themselves trailed
perfectly into the two slender straps that rose over her smooth
shoulders.

Pamela Jane Wright has always been either a rather "neuter"
creature (when I'm not thinking about sexuality) or a rather sleazy
"sex kitten" (when I am.)

The woman in the mirror was not wanton . . . and she certainly
wasn't neuter. She was the most beautiful, desirable woman I'd ever
seen.

I was about to make some kind of comment like "She was a goddess.",
or "She was sexy beyond belief." But this woman in the mirror defied
such cheap comment. She was elegant, dignified. She was achingly
desirable. She was someone to be pursued . . . to be won at any price
. . . someone to be enfolded in strong masculine arms and cherished
once she'd been won.

I have never felt at once both so masculine and so feminine.

Gazing at that vision in the mirror, I think I began to understand
just what the fuss was all about after all. There was no denying
it. Giancarlo was a certifiable genius.

*********

I called in to the office the next morning. For the first time I'd
slept `en femme' wearing the peignoir and a pair of matching
French-cut silk panties. I have no idea what Pamela dreamt that night,
but I awoke refreshed with my imagination more fired and insistent
then I've ever experienced. I've converted my spare bedroom into a
small studio and I told the folks at the office that I'd be working at
home today.

A rather worried Josh came on the line and hissed "What are you up
to?" I chuckled . . . well . . . giggled actually . . . ( For some
reason I'd thought it necessary to change my normal baritone into
Pamela's contralto this morning.) . . . and assured Josh that
everything was fine. I told him I was "on a roll" and that I'd have
some dynamite stuff for him by Thursday. This seemed to reassure him
and he told me to stay home as long as I thought necessary.

I fell into one of those "artistic fugues" you hear about. I lost
all track of time. I ate when the grumbling in my stomach grew
distracting. I slept when I couldn't hold my eyes open any more, and
awoke charged with new visions. And through it all, I wore that
marvelous, magical lingerie. If my creativity ever flagged, I needed
only to look into the mirror (which I'd dragged in from the bedroom)
and my paints and pencils seemed to fly of their own volition.

It was late Tuesday evening when I finally set my pencil down,
capped my paints and took stock of my work.

I've never done better.

And these were only rough, presentation graphics.

With no small measure of regret, I slipped out of the satin
bodysuit I was wearing and went into the bathroom to draw the hot
water for my transformation back into Peter. I was exhausted,
drained. I needed sleep. I do remember my dreams of that night
. . . wild, erotic . . . passionate. Oh, how I envied a woman who
could wear one of Giancarlo's magical gowns to her lover's bed! And
how I envied the man who could romance such a woman!

*********

I'm often struck by how, in so many cases, the world's greatest
geniuses have also been the world's greatest eccentrics. Think about
it; Leonardo DiVinci, Alexander Graham Bell, Einstein . . . I'm sure
you can add more names to the list.

Be sure to add Giancarlo of Venice.

Thursday rolled around and the whole staff was in early that
morning. I guess it could be due, in part, to that fact that we'd
never had a real celebrity in the office. And Giancarlo was a
celebrity. Even Josh, who's awareness of high fashion extended to the
ability to coordinate his ties (. . . usually), was a bit more keyed
up than usual. That explained the air of excitement from the
males. The females . . . well . . .

Okay . . . Under my conservative business suit I was wearing those
same French-cut panties and an absolutely "to die for" silk full slip
that had come in the box of Giancarlo's lingerie. If the "magic" could
work on me-a male (no matter outward appearance), I think the feeling
of giddy anticipation circulating in the secretarial pool was
understandable.

Giancarlo's arrival was scheduled for 10 A.M. At 9:30, a stretch
limo pulled up at the curb and "The Maestro's" advance team
disembarked. We met them in the large conference room. There were six
of them, evenly divided into a rather strange mixture of professional
business assistants and "camp followers". The former consisted of a
middle aged, and very distinguished looking woman named Nina, a late
middle aged man named Angelo, and an early 30ish fellow named
Anthony. The latter group consisted of Alberto, (Giancarlo's
`autobiographer'), Madame Lafarge (a wacko old woman who served, so
she claimed, as Giancarlo's spiritual advisor) and Petrov (whose
official function I never did figure out, though I suspect body guard
was at least part of the job description. He was a huge, mustachioed
bravo who just loomed in a corner, scowling at everyone and
everything.)

After introductions, Nina managed to foist Alberto and Madame
Lafarge off on Angelo on the pretext of touring the rest of the firm's
facilities. (Angelo seemed to take it with an admirable
resignation. Apparently, care of the "looneys" was his job
description.) That left Nina, Anthony, Petrov, Josh, Beth, and me
waiting for Giancarlo's imminent arrival.

Very soon I was impressed by Nina and Anthony's cool
professionalism. Being a commercial artist myself, I knew only too
well that creative genius mattered little without the business sense
to market your art. Apparently Giancarlo had learned this lesson too
since he employed folks like Nina and Anthony to handle the financial
matters. Within ten minutes of meeting and once the pleasantries of
introductions and small talk were out of the way, Nina and Josh were
fully engaged in business matters. I've always said that Josh was a
"natural businessman". In Nina he'd found a perfect foil. It was fun
to watch them fence back and forth, all under the cover of pleasant
conversation.

As Nina and Josh jousted, I became aware that Anthony had also gone
quiet. I glanced over at him just as his eyes wandered in my
direction. Our gazes locked for a brief instant. I smiled politely. He
smiled politely.

He was a handsome fellow. He was of obvious northern Italian stock
with ice blue eyes and well trimmed white-blonde hair. A high clear
brow rose above well-defined aristocratic roman features. He was just
under six feet, well proportioned, and athlete trim. For the briefest
moment, I had memories of a very bad experience I'd had with another
handsome businessman, but the thought vanished almost before it
formed. Anthony was no Kevin Sprague. You could tell in just a moment;
this was a true gentleman. His smile was easy, open and genuinely
friendly. I found that mine was too. Again I thought it a shame that
under this lovely woman disguise lurked Peter Wright. It seemed a
waste somehow. I'd wager that if Pamela was the "genuine article" she
and Anthony could generate a few sparks . . . and have a lot of fun in
the doing.

Little did I know.

My reverie was shattered when the conference room door flew open
and in strode "il Maestro" himself. The one . . . the only
. . . Giancarlo of Milan.

You could tell it was him as easily as if he'd been wearing a sign
around his neck reading; "Fashion Genius" He was wearing a silk suit,
silk cravat and had a camel hair coat thrown over his shoulders. Dark
aviator glasses shielded his eyes from the flash of the paparazzi's
cameras. (A pity there weren't any paparrazi around at the moment. It
rather ruined the effect.) That Giancarlo himself was a rather rotund,
late middle aged, dark-visaged little gnome didn't help the overall
effect either.

He stopped in the door effectively blocking the entrance of the
dozen or so "groupies" that followed in his wake and swept the room
with a disdainful gaze.

"Where is-a she? Where is-a `il artista' ?"

Josh rose to his feet. "Signore Giancarlo, on behalf of the firm of
Whitman, North and . . ."

Giancarlo waved him to silence with a preemptory flick of his
hand. "Si', si' . . . you are hon-nor-ed. Everyone is. Now, where is-a
she?"

Josh spluttered to a halt then shifted gears. " `She',
signore? Which `she'?"

But Giancarlo had stopped paying attention to Josh and was sweeping
majestically in my direction, arms flung wide. "Ah! This is-a she!
Here is `il Artista'!" Before I could get my feet beneath me
and stand, Giancarlo had my right hand in his and was raising it to
his lips! It was all I could do to keep from snatching it back in my
surprise. I managed to stammer "It's a great honor to meet you Signore
Giancarlo." He continued to fondle my hand and cooed "Ah! Bella
. . . bellissima!" Without taking his eyes off me (I could see
them glimmering behind the dark glasses) he spoke to Nina and
Anthony. "Do you see? In her eyes . . . `il fuoco'
. . . `il passione' . . .this is the one! This is `il
Artista'! Giancarlo knew it the moment he first-a see this angel's
work!"

Well . . . he was a definite "flake". But he apparently knew
artistic talent when he saw it.

Aw . . . what the heck . . . why not play along.?

I let my hand relax a bit, raised my chin an inch and gave him that
well rehearsed smile I'd once used on Josh. (So long ago now it
seemed, on a sidewalk during the first day of another life.) "Oh,
Maestro . . . gracci."

He finally surrendered my hand and then lowered himself into one of
the chairs. "So . . . belladonna . . . you have-a something to
show Giancarlo, si'?"

That one brought me up short till I realized he was asking to see
my proposed artwork. "Ah, yes signore." I rose and (with a little
added sway to my hips . . . I couldn't help it.) walked over to the
covered easel that held my sketches.

For the next twenty minutes I displayed my concept, described the
effect I was aiming for, talked about form and color . . . and
generally did my graphic artist song and dance. It was several minutes
into the presentation before I realized that Giancarlo had gone
completely silent. Rattled, I kept plugging away, doggedly staring at
the sketches. If I'd bombed out . . . if I'd blown this . . . Josh
would skin me and hang Pamela's `hide' from the flagpole atop our
building.

I finally reached the final panel then stuttered to a halt.

Dead silence.

Then Giancarlo was on his feet applauding wildly. "Brava! Si'! Si'!
This is-a what Giancarlo wanted! This-a is-a perfeccione!
Giancarlo himself could-a no have-a done better!"

Whew . . . thank God once again to the folks at Nu-Gen. I must have
been sweating like a horse at this point, but Pamela maintained the
vision of `il Artista' and inclined her angel's face in
acknowledgment of "il Maestro"'s praise. "Gracci, signore
. . . multo gracci" (And thank you Beth DiAngelo for your "Fawning
in Italian" quickie-course)

Giancarlo was rubbing his hands with glee. "Bono. Now-a
then. You have-a make arrangements for-a the models, si'? Show them-a
to me."

Josh's smile of victory froze in place. "Models, Maestro?
Umm . . . It was my impression that this was to be an "artwork" rather
than a photographic ad campaign."

Slowly Giancarlo turned to face Josh and with one finger pulled the
dark glasses down onto the bridge of his nose so he could peer over
them. " `Your impression'? And since-a when did-a you impression
matter, eh?" Before Josh could answer THAT one, Giancarlo was back to
me. "No, no . . . ask-a `il Artista'. She will tell-a
you. We must-a have the realata' of-a woman for-a to create the
fantasia, si'?"

And you know what? He was dead right. It hadn't even occurred to me
till he said it, but my sketches were the blueprints upon which
to base a photo shoot of live models. Drawings wouldn't work. By God
. . . flake Giancarlo might be . . . but artistic genius he certainly
was!

I gave Josh a superior, smug little smile and simply nodded.

The look I got in return probably would have melted case-hardened
steel. "Ah. Well . . . forgive me Maestro. I've obviously
misunderstood. Of course, we can obtain the services of any modeling
agency you'd care to specify."

Giancarlo sank back into his chair and shook his head in
sadness. "No . . . no. Professional models? No. I have-a models and
models. Belladonna, surely you know that a professional model
won't-a work. Why have-a you no tell this . . . " A vague wave in
Josh's direction. " . . . this . . . persona that-a you require
a new face, a new woman for this new fantasia?"

Right again. It was so obvious once Giancarlo said it; the concept
that ran through all my art was the `discovery' . . . the
`exploration' . . . of femininity. A professional model wouldn't
work. A professional model had already discovered all there was to
discover about her femininity. It was her stock and trade. If we used
such a model in our ads she'd look sleek and glossy and perfect. And
she'd be all wrong . . . all wrong.

I must have been speaking out loud. Giancarlo's fist slammed down
on the table and he smiled hugely. "Exaccto!"

I glanced over at Josh and the predatory grin on his face would
have frozen that melted case-hardened steel in the blink of an
eye. "Well. The solution seems to be obvious. If a professional model
won't work, we'll simply get a novice. And since Ms Wright is
intimately familiar with the concept, it seems only natural that SHE
should be that model."

I was about to shriek a denial but Giancarlo beat me to it. (Thank
God!) "No, no . . .oh no. You understand-a nothing . . . nothing!
have-a you no art in you at all?" He made a gallant little gesture
toward me. "The artist can no be-a the art too!" A rather vaguely rude
gesture toward Josh. " What-a were-a you think, eh? You . . . you
. . . book-keeper!"

Josh was framing an answer, but apparently the audience was
over. While Josh stammered, Giancarlo rose from his chair, swept over
to me standing beside the easel, again kissed my hand, then turned and
strode for the door. His entourage scrambled to follow. At the door,
Giancarlo paused, turned back on Josh and in a voice that would have
made any roman emperor proud commanded, "You will have-a the model
ready for-a my approval within-a two week."

And he was gone.

*********

I wasn't being difficult. I swear to God I wasn't.

For the next week the entire art staff poured over model's photos,
contacted talent agencies, drafted ads for newspapers . . . hell
. . . we even got some college yearbooks from nearby colleges. Nothing
was right.

I nixed every candidate. It got to the point where some of the
staff wouldn't speak to me.

I'd become infected with Giancarlo's vision. I knew what was
required: a beautiful woman who didn't know she was beautiful . . . an
adult female for whom femininity was a new discovery. Of course, it
took me three days to realize that the answer was, literally, right
under my nose.

All we needed to get what I instinctively knew would be the perfect
model was to place an order with the geniuses at Nu-Gen for a new
I-2000S built to my specifications.

And then find the right man to stick inside the suit.

I literally ran down the hall to Josh's suite, and barged right by
his blonde bimb . . . er . . . receptionist who managed an outraged
"Hey, you can't just . . . " and then I was through the door which I
slammed behind myself.

Josh was on the phone but one look at my face and he mumbled "I'll
call you back, something's come up." He hung up, then raised an
eyebrow at me.

I panted "I've got it! I've figured it out!"

"What?"

"Where we get the model for Giancarlo. It's so obvious!"

Josh perked up. "Yeah? Who? Which girl did you decide on?"

I made sure the door was shut then in a lowered voice, "Not a girl
at all. We let technology solve the problem." I think I arched my
delicate eyebrows enough to get the point across.

Josh leaned back and considered what I was proposing. "Ooh PJ
. . . I don't know. That is risky. Do you really think this is the
`girl' you want?"

Josh held up a hand to still further protest. After a lifetime
together we knew each other's strengths and weakness. When it came to
business matters, I trusted Josh implicitly. And he knew that when it
came to things artistic my hunches usually proved correct.

"Okay . . . okay. This is gonna be awfully tricky though. We gotta
get just the right person for this. And I don't mean in terms of
looks. Have you stopped and thought what a hold the person we'd get
would have over us?"

I came up short. "What do you mean; `hold'?"

I got the disgusted `you naïve artist' stare that Josh
reserved for when I was being particularly dense. "PJ, think about it
. . . we get some guy to pose as Giancarlo's dream model . . . for
some reason our fake female later gets pissed off at us and takes the
story to the press. Can you imagine the headlines? It'd be the end of
us as a firm. Who'd ever hire an agency that pulled something like
that on a client?"

Oh. No. I hadn't thought of that. Ouch. Well, maybe we could just
explain it to Giancarlo before hand.

Yeah . . . right.

Damn! This was the answer. Deep in my gut, I was absolutely,
positively convinced of it. This would be the ideal `girl' for the
ads. "Okay. We just have to be careful about the person we get, that's
all."

Josh shook his head, leaned back and folded his hands behind his
neck. "It's got to be somebody we can absolutely trust. I mean
absolutely and forever. I can't think of anybody like that. Can
you?"

I looked at Josh sitting there.

Yes. Yes I could think of somebody.

*********

We must have gone around and around in Josh's office for the better
part of two hours. He was adamant about it. He wouldn't do it. No
way. No how. It wouldn't work. Nobody would believe it. I was crazy. I
was just trying to get even for the whole Pamela deal. On and on.I let
him vent. I was right. I knew it. Josh would just have to see it my
way.

After two hours, Josh had run out of arguments. He'd run out of
counter proposals. He was forced to acknowledge that this was the only
way out for us.

Glaring, he called Accounting and got me a purchase order made out
to Nu-Gen, Inc.

We charged it against "Supplies".

*********

The idea had occurred to me on the Friday morning of the week
before the deadline. By mid-morning Josh had finally surrendered to
the inevitable. I spent what was left of the morning and all of the
afternoon closeted in my studio working through sketches of what I
thought the ideal physical appearance for our "girl" would be. I then
used my desktop computer to contact Nu-Gen's web site. I submitted my
`specs' and requested two-day air delivery.

Josh phoned me from his home right on schedule the Monday before
our Thursday deadline.

"It's here. You better come over."

"On my way."

I don't think I've ever seen Josh as edgy as when I arrived at his
place.

He was holding a beer when he met me at his door. I'd be willing to
bet he'd already polished off another between when he got home and
now. Just to be sociable, I rummaged in his fridge for a cold one of
my own, then clapped my hands together and rubbed them in
anticipation.

Josh just about jumped out of his skin at the sudden noise. He was
nervous as a cat.

"Come on Josh. It doesn't hurt. Well . . . not much." (Oh, it was
going to be hard over the next few hours not to remember all the
childhood injuries and abuse I'd taken from him.) He just looked at
me, stricken, and I relented. "Really Josh. It's not bad. Hell, I do
it every morning."

Josh waved a hand in quick dismissal. "Oh, hey. Not that I think
you're queer or anything. You know I know you're not. It's just that I
think sometimes you get into the role a little too much, you
know?"

I set my beer down. When I spoke, even I was surprised by the quiet
intensity of my words. "You think I'm a cross-dresser. You think
there's something `wrong' with me." Josh started to splutter a
denial but I cut him off. "And what if I am? Hmm? Does that mean it's
time we started considering counseling? That we better start looking
for a cure?"

Josh's eyes were getting big and he was waving his hands in front
of himself trying to ward off my words. "Hey, PJ . . . come on . . . I
. . . "

I cut him off again. "Well sport. I got a flash for you. Pamela was
a desperate measure for a desperate situation. But over time
. . . you're right . . . I have begun to enjoy it."

Josh's eyes were a big as saucers.

"But not for a sexual thrill. Well, not only for that. I enjoy it
because of all the new experiences it's opened for me. Does my getting
a thrill out of exploring my femininity make me a transvestite . . . a
`queer'? Maybe it does. Maybe it doesn't. And you know what Josh?
I don't think I care one way or the other! Does that rock your
comfortable little boat?"

Josh just stared at me slack-jawed. I plowed ahead.

"What is it about cross-dressing that is so God-awful terrible,
huh? The tone in your voice just a moment ago . . . Why do `normal'
people get so bent out of shape by it? Who does it hurt? If I don't
set out to really hurt somebody by the deception, and you know I never
have, where's the harm?" I spotted the box from Nu-Gen and waved it at
Josh. "You know what dear brother? This little invention has opened my
eyes. With it, I've found out a lot about myself . . . myself as a
person, not just a gender." It threw the box at him and he caught
it. "I think, if you're lucky, you might just learn a little something
about yourself. I think maybe you need to." I turned on my heel and
stalked off and, to his credit, Josh silently followed. We trudged up
the stairs toward the bathroom where Pamela had first "appeared". I
was seething and Josh looked like he was being led off to the
gallows.

We weren't getting off to the best of starts.

*********

I managed to calm down a little as we were filling the but. Josh
just shifted from one foot to the other looking miserable. I finally
sent him back downstairs for the meat thermometer. I was a t the point
where I could pretty well judge whether the water was the correct
temperature to activate the suit just by sticking my wrist into the
tub. But Josh's anxiety was getting on my nerves and I wanted to give
him something to do.

After he'd left, I opened the box, took a quick look at the manual
to ensure that there weren't any new features of instructions that I
needed to be aware of, (there weren't), and finally pulled out "The
Suit".

Like Pamela, the "new girl", (we'd have to come up with a name for
her), was sealed in a clear plastic envelope. Holding it, I had a
pleasantly nostalgic memory of my first impression of Pamela. The suit
was just a flesh colored slab, its only features being a bunch of
nondescript folds and a thatch of fur at one end. This time, there was
a difference in the fur. Per my specification, "the new girl" would be
a dark red-head with long curly tresses. Looking at the rust colored
patch of fuzz, I was again struck by just how marvelous was the
technology I was holding in my hand. The last of my anger
evaporated. This was going to be an exciting new chapter in the
exploration I'd mentioned. And this time I got to be a spectator
rather than the daring explorer.

I was worrying the plastic envelope with my teeth when Josh
returned with the thermometer.

"Is that it? Is that what it's supposed to look like?"

I managed to tear one of the corners off the packaging and
nodded. "Um hmm. Not too impressive yet, but just wait!" I pulled the
suit out and tossed it gently into the now half full tub. Josh watched
it sink and I couldn't help but snicker at his raised-eyebrow look of
disapproval. "You sure it's supposed to do that?" Again I
nodded. "Trust me, man. Everything's okay."

"Hummph . . . okay . . . now what?"

I thought about that for a second. "Well, it's supposed to soak for
a few minutes. In the mean time, we can skip ahead a few steps and
take care of your voice."

Josh tensed up. Here it was; the first concrete step in his
"transformation". "Umm . . . okay . . . What do I have to do?" I'd
already spotted the Styrofoam packing for the bottle of chemical spray
that tightened the user's vocal cords. I pulled it out and spotted the
`boutique-style box' underneath. I wondered just what kind of
outfit this suit came with. Well, one thing at a time. I took the
`convenient spray bottle' out of the packing. "All you have to do
is trust me bro." Now both eyebrows shot up on Josh's forehead. "Open
wide." He did though you'd think I was holding a dental drill rather
than a spray bottle. "Now, when I say, take a deep breath in through
your mouth. Ready?" He nodded, mouth hanging wide. "Okay . . . Now!"
And I gave him a healthy spritz.

He spluttered and gagged for a second then looked at me
accusingly. "You could have warned me before you did that. And you
could have said it tasted like shi . . . Hey! My voice hasn't
changed!" I grinned. "It takes a few minutes to `kick in'. And
. . . uhh . . . you're right. I really should warn you about some of
the stuff that goes on. I promise; I'll be good from now on. And to
that end; I told you this doesn't hurt `much'. Uh, this is one of
the parts that does hurt just a . . ."

The sudden furrow on Josh's brow and the fact that both his hands
were now wrapped around his throat indicated that the formula was
indeed `kicking in'. "Swallow a few times Josh. It'll stop in just
a second. I promise." He glared at me and I saw his adam's apple bob
several times. I waited a moment. "Better?" He finally nodded, glaring
at me. "Yeah, but listen you son-of-a . . ."

Oh my. What a delightfully musical soprano! Hell. As Pamela, I just
might have to be a little jealous!

Josh's mouth snapped shut and both his hands slapped together over
his lips. I grinned. "Kind of surprising, isn't it?" He just nodded,
his eyes large and round. He moved his hands away, still ready to grab
what ever it was he thought was lurking in his throat. "This goes
. . . wow . . . this goes away after a while, right?"

"Yep. Eight hours from now, I'll be back to hearing that annoying
nasal bray you call a voice."

"Patience, alright? Would you have believed that you could get that
dynamite voice out of a bottle? Have a little faith in the
technology."

I suppose I could understand Josh's confusion. The various plastics
that compose an I-2000S are temperature/moisture activated. They go
through three `phases' depending on the suit's temperature. When
dry and/or at temperatures below 80 degrees, the suit enters what
Nu-Gen calls its `dormant' state; that nondescript slab of flesh
colored plastic. Saturate the suit and raise it's temperature to 110
plus degrees and it enters its `neutral' or `donning' state;
this rather disappointing facsimile of a woman currently floating face
down in the tub. It is between the temperatures of 90 to 104 degrees
that the memory plastic of the suit activates and magic happens.

I motioned to Josh. "Help me get `her' out of the tub." Josh
reached out, his fingers touched the `flesh' of `her' shoulder,
and he recoiled. "Come on Josh. It's only plastic, no matter what it
feels like."

"Whatever . . . just give me a hand." He pitched in with a will
just to prove that his initial contact with his new alter ego hadn't
rattled him.

I've never had too much trouble handling `Pamela', but the
`new girl' was a bit awkward, mostly due to the long wet mop of
chestnut hair. Gee, that hair was beautiful, even soaking wet. I
couldn't wait to see `her' when we finally got josh decked out. I
could already tell, perhaps from my experience with Pamela that
`she' had a lot of potential.

Apparently Josh didn't share my optimism. He muttered (in that
gorgeous voice), "It's gotta be broken. This doesn't look anywhere
near as good as you do when you're Pamela."

"Will you have a little faith please?"

"Alright . . .alright . . . now what?"

I couldn't help it . . . I giggled. "Show time, bro. Strip!"

"Oh man . . . do I have to?"

I just held the suit up by its shoulders and grinned.

"Oh man . . ."

Reluctantly, Josh pulled off his shirt and tie, kicked off his
shoes, (He really must be rattled. My anal-retentive brother didn't
even untie them first!), unbuckled his belt and slid off his
slacks. Then he looked at me expectantly.

Josh finally calmed down enough for me to get a look at him. He
looked like . . . he looked . . .

He looked like a man wearing a plastic suit that was failing
completely to disguise him as a woman.

He looked positively horrendous.

Just as when I'd first seen Pamela, the individual parts far
exceeded the whole. The hair still looked nice, a pair of perky little
breasts bobbed about on this apparition's chest . . . skin had a
lovely "peaches and cream" complexion . . . but everything was out of
both proportion and position. Worse, it was all attached to a very
masculine form. No matter how good the parts, the whole was horribly,
embarrassingly artificial.

Lord! Was this what Pamela looked like when I first put her on
every work day? Remind me never to "dress" in front of anyone!

Josh stood there, forlorn. He mumbled something that I had to make
him repeat twice before I finally got it; "Now what?"

"Ah! Okay. Now I gotta warn you; as soon as the suit cools down to
body temperature, the memory threads are gonna activate."

"Mummph?"

"The threads are gonna activate and you're gonna feel a little
. . ."

"Mummph?"

" . . . a little squeeze."

"Mummph?!"

"It's not bad . . . it's just a little . . . uh oh . . ."

"Mummmphhhh!!!"

What happened next was positively astonishing. It was like watching
one of those science fiction movies where one thing "morphs" into
another. Except, this was happening in the real world! Before my eyes
Josh . . . changed . . . Things . . . shifted. His waist suddenly
contracted as his hips swelled. His square shoulders rounded
out. Those silly looking breasts shifted into a much more natural
position and suddenly didn't look silly at all! And down at Josh's
groin . . .

Oh my!

My suspicion about `her' potential had been correct. Josh was
gone. I stood there, slack jawed staring at the woman of my most
private fantasies.

Where Pamela has full pouting breasts, this woman's were a bit
smaller and upturned in the most delightful fashion. Her long hair,
though still wet, was already beginning to show curl and body and a
deep lustrous mahogany sheen. Her figure was trim, almost lean
. . . but deeply, arousingly feminine. I felt a stir of embarrassment
when my eyes passed quickly over her womanhood. (Hey! This is Josh
. . . remember?) Her face was narrow and aristocratic . . . and would
have been rather cold but for a bewitchingly child-like spatter of
freckles across the bridge of her nose, perfectly matching a second
band of spots above her gorgeous bosom.

"Then what?" Josh started to turn to the mirror over the sink
behind him but I grabbed his wrist. (God! Is this what Pamela's skin
feels like? This satiny smoothness?) "Wait. Have you thought about
what you want to call yourself? A girl's name, I mean."

Delicate eyebrows rose above deep hazel pools. Josh was trying to
decide if I'd gone completely off the deep end. "Yeah. I thought we'd
. . . God, this voice! . . . I thought we'd go the same route as we
did with you and try for a name close to mine. Something I'd respond
to naturally."

"What did you pick?"

"I thought . . . this is so embarrassing! . . . I thought I'd go
with Jessica and shorten it to Jess . . . close to Josh, see?"

I nodded, released "Jessica's" wrist and motioned to the
mirror. "Well . . . all I've got to say is; Heeeeer's Jessie!"

I'll never forget the look on "her" face when she first saw
"herself" in the mirror. Or how, even though the outward appearance
was so undeniably a stunningly beautiful woman, my brother Josh proved
beyond doubt that it was still him behind that beguiling disguise.

Her jaw dropped almost to her chest and in an awed, little girl
whisper "Jessica" gasped;

"Fuck me!"

*********

Josh simply wouldn't get into his new role.

"Look. It works, okay? Now can I take this thing off?"

We were sitting in my old bedroom that Josh had converted into a
home office. He was perched nervously on a stool, his beautiful new
body making it almost impossible for me to concentrate on anything
else for more than a few seconds.

"Josh . . . Jess . . .what the hell is wrong with you? Don't be in
such a rush! You need to get much more used to it if this scheme is
going to work."

"Please don't call me Jess."

"Damn it! I'm going to call you Jess till you answer to it without
thinking. Will you stop being such an ass and try to get into
this?"

"I don't WANT to get into it. Can't you comprehend that? I'm going
along with this out of necessity. That doesn't mean I have to enjoy it
or do it any longer than I absolutely have to. Understand?"

"No. I don't. What's the problem with you?"

"I feel like a god-damn idiot sitting here! That's what's
wrong!"

"Josh . . . Jess. You don't need to feel like an idiot You sure as
hell don't look like one! You've seen yourself. You know how good you
look."

"That's the point! It's wrong! I'm a guy! You shouldn't be sitting
there looking at me the way you are. Bad enough that anybody look at
me that way. But my own brother?!"

I forced myself to look away. "And that's why I want you to put on
some clothes."

There was a long pregnant pause.

Then, in a soft, pleading voice . . . a voice that made the man in
me want to gather Jess into my strong arms and protect her . . . a
voice that I struggled to remember still belonged to my conniving
brother!; "Please PJ . . . please don't make me. I . . . I can't."

"Why not?"

She looked down at the slender hands folded in her lap, her long
tresses hiding her face. (Oh Jeeze! If she started to cry, I'd be in
big trouble!) "Because if I put on woman's clothing . . .

"What? You afraid you might like it?"

Jess (Josh!) looked into my eyes and I melted. "PJ
. . . please. I'm sorry about earlier. I really am. I didn't mean
anything by it. You're right. There are lots of things I should be
more sensitive about. I know I can be a real schmuck. I don't mean to
be. Sometimes, it's just the way I am."

I summoned the last of my will power. "The only way you're going to
learn to be more sensitive is to see how other folks live. Seems to me
that this is a golden opportunity."

With a small nod and a ragged sigh that made me feel like ten kinds
of monster. (It's Josh you moron! He's pulling another scam!) Jessica
finally agreed. "Okay. What do I do?"

I tossed her (him!) the boutique box. "It's not rocket science. I'm
sure you can figure it out."

She (he!) fielded the box and nodded in resignation.

I looked over her shoulder as she opened it and was a bit
disappointed to see a familiar dark blue floral print. Apparently all
the suits came with the same `outfit'. I made a mental note to
remember that dress and to be very cautious about `hitting on' any
`woman' I might encounter wearing it in the future.

Jess pulled out the dress, set it aside and then bit her lower lip
looking at the antique white lingerie. I pointed. "Start with the
panties please." She pulled them out, held them at arm's length in
front of her delicious breasts and looked at them for a moment. "Which
is the front and which is the back?"I sighed in exasperation. "Lace on
the front, tag in the back. Jeeze, Jess! It's not that hard!"

She nodded, her hair again concealing her face. In a small voice;
"I'm sorry PJ . . .please don't be angry. I'm doing my best." She
stepped into the briefs and slid them up her shapely legs then over
the curve of her hips. (Thank goodness! One less distraction to deal
with.) "Bra next, please." Jess started to slip the straps over her
shoulders. I thought I be a nice guy and spare her all the trouble of
my first encounter with that devious device. "Jess, wait. Don't put
your arms through yet. Spin it around so you can see the fasteners,
clip them together, spin it back around, then put your arms through
the straps."

"Like that?"

I had to swallow before I could speak. "Dress next. Just pull it
over your head like a sweater and let the skirt fall naturally."

The dress slithered over Jessica's slender form and swirled around
her knees for a moment. Wow! How could strippers have gotten it so
backwards?

Jess fumbled for a moment trying to reach the zipper while holding
her long chestnut hair out of the way. "PJ . . . I can't reach
. . . help me."

"Wait." I stood up and she turned her back to me, hair still held
over her shoulder, neck bowed in submission. Were my fingers actually
trembling a little as I zipped her up? Gawd, she was so beautiful!

We both sad back down, she again perched on the stool, legs
demurely pressed together, hands folded delicately in her lap, hair
cascading down over her shoulders and falling like a wave over the
beguiling freckles above the deep cleft of her bosom.

Again, there was a hitch in my voice. "Um . . . let's forget about
the stockings for now. Plenty of time for you to practice that on your
own later. Just . . . uh . . . just put the sandals on."

She nodded, retrieved the sandals and slid one on each foot, using
her free hand to hold back the fall of her hair so she could see what
she was doing. Then she returned to the same position, perched on the
stool . . . meek, demure, submissive . . . "Anything else PJ?"

"Um. No. I think that's enough for now. See? That's not so bad, is
it?"

Still staring at her folded hands she gave me another of those
ragged sighs and a small nod.

"Aw Jess. Please. Don't be this way. What's wrong? I do this every
workday!"

She looked up, meeting my eyes through her long lashes, the anguish
on her face making me want to find a hole to crawl into. "It's okay
PJ. It's just that wearing this dress, I'm remembering your first day
as Pamela."

"What? What do you mean?"

"You know . . . out on the sidewalk."

Then he couldn't hold that fake submissive expression anymore and
the corners of his lips curled into that wicked, scheming grin I knew
so well.

"So, what do you say PJ? Turn about's fair play. Wanna go down the
hall and fuck?"

*********

Josh and I called in Tuesday morning and warned the office that
neither of us would be in for the next two days. We gave as our excuse
that Josh and Pamela had found the model and we needed the two days to
prep her. Actually, this wasn't a lie. With Pamela's help Josh had the
"look", now he needed everything else that went into being a
woman.

Two days to make a woman. Do other people face situations as
outrageous as this?

By mid-Tuesday morning, the distraction of working with lovely
Jessica had proven more than I could stand. We tried not changing
Josh's voice to see that would help me concentrate on the task at
hand. It didn't. The first time Josh's nasal voice came out of
Jessica's lovely semi-naked form, it just about blew my mind. We
finally settled on something that made giving demonstrations easier
and, oddly, reduced my own distraction.

Man. I wish either Josh or I owned a video camera. Two full days of
Pamela and Jessica . . . practicing feminine gesture and mannerism
. . . walking . . . sitting . . . dressing . . . undressing. I'd keep
one copy of the tape for myself (and never need another 'girly'
magazine) and sell the other to some porno channel for a million
bucks.

Josh never did 'get into it', but he is a quick study and by late
Wednesday night, I though he had enough of the fundamentals to
'pass'. Besides, she was so drop-dead gorgeous that folks might think
Jessica a bit 'tom-boyish', but you'd have to be a mind reader to
suspect the real situation.

*********

Thursday.

Josh had called in "sick" and informed everyone at work that I
(Pamela) would take care of the meet with Giancarlo.

It was a bit of an anti-climax.

The entourage swirled into the office at just a bit after 11:00,
Giancarlo at the center of his courtiers, his right hand giving what I
call the "il Duce Wave" . . . fingers together, back of the hand to
the 'adoring throngs' moving slightly. If he wasn't such a genius,
he'd be laughable.

We met in the conference room. Giancarlo swept in, nodded to me,
took one look at Jessica . . .

. . . and stopped dead in his tracks, his jaw hanging open.

There was a moment's pregnant silence. Poor Josh, he didn't get
it. Too new to the role I guess. But I'd been around long enough as
Pamela to know that look on a man's face.

The penny finally dropped and Josh, in the best "shy virgin" manner
that I could teach him lowered his eyes and cooed " I'm Jessica,
maestro . . . I don't know how to tell you how happy I am that
you think I'm right for your ads."

Yikes. What a come-on, albeit unintentional. And it was
working. Giancarlo was beginning to perspire. How was I supposed to
know that he and I shared a common erotic fantasy woman?

Then he was gone and the court followers were scrambling to
follow. All that is except for Anthony. He just stood aside and
watched with a slightly bemused expression as the tide of humanity
receded toward the bank of elevators.

I finally managed to catch his eye. "Island?"

He turned those amazing ice-blue eyes on me and
smiled. "Indeed. Il Maestro owns a small island. He likes to do
his 'creating' there."

"Oh. How interesting." Trapped alone on an island with Giancarlo
while he was 'creating'? This could be very interesting! "I guess I
should take Jessica home and start packing."

Anthony waved a hand in dismissal. "No need. There is a rule. On
il Maestro's island, women wear Giancarlo's clothing . . . or
they wear nothing at all." He gave me a harmless little leer, which
coming from him robbed that statement of most of it's threat
. . . still . . .

We flew out just as the sun was setting. "The jet" turned out to be
a Grumman 'Gulfstream II' . . one of those largish multi-engine
business jets that show the world you're so big that you had to trade
in the Learjet for more space.

The passenger cabin was an exercise in; "I'm filthy rich and I can
flaunt it". If it wasn't Corinthian leather, it was genuine teak
. . . or ivory . . . or velvet . . . or what ever was needlessly
expensive. I claimed a leather 'captain's chair' over one wing,
Anthony grabbed the other and poor Jessica wound up in a huge crescent
shaped sofa set against the back bulkhead with Giancarlo sprawled
right beside her.

He petted, he praised, he cooed . . . and then, a little over an
hour into the flight, he mercifully fell asleep and spent the rest of
the trip snoring while Jessica sat and looked perplexed and I just bit
my lip to keep from laughing.

The jet began it's descent to "Isle Giancarlo" just as the sun was
rising out of the cerulean waters of the Aegean.

By mid-morning of our first day we'd pretty well settled
in. Giancarlo had disappeared to arrange for delivery of the lingerie
we would be using in the photo shoots and to get a photographer that
he knew of. I got a room on the west wing of the second floor of the
Byzantine castle that someone had built here a few odd hundred years
ago. As good as his word, the closet was filled with clothing,
everything from sundresses to evening gowns. And all in Pamela's
size. I wonder how they'd figured that out. Somebody was very
efficient. I took my 'toilet case' containing my one vital personal
item; Nu-Gen's voice spray, gave myself a good spritz and then put it
away in a drawer in the bathroom. Then I slipped out of my business
suit (which I'd been wearing since yesterday morning) and selected a
mid-calf length white cotton sun dress and sandals which I felt went
very well with my new 'Grecian' surroundings.

I spent several hours getting the 'grand tour' from Anthony. "Isle
Giancarlo" was one of the Cyclades Islands off the southeast coast of
Greece. Technically a part of that country, the Greek authorities
pretty much left Giancarlo alone so long as he didn't do anything too
outrageous. This explained how we'd managed to avoid the (in Jessica's
and my cases) embarrassing details of obtaining passports.

The Mansion had belonged to some Austro-Hungarian monarch at the
turn of the last century. As Anthony told it; the potentate had a
nubile young daughter who had a bit of trouble . . . umm
. . . "keeping her knees together" . . . when handsome young gentlemen
were around. I guess in those days princesses could be ugly as mud
fences and still attract boys. By all reports, the princess was as
lovely as she was horny. Daddy solved the problem by building her this
guilded cage till he could arrange a suitable marriage to some prince
at which point it would all become someone else's problem. The villa
was an imposing heap in classic Byzantine style, three stories tall,
and right out of the "Arabian Nights". It also overlooked one of the
most beautiful white sand beaches I've ever seen.

The shoot was scheduled to begin the next morning so I had the rest
of the day to myself to explore. I wandered the halls of Giancarlo's
villa for the better part of the morning, but by 11:00 A.M. the warm
temptation of the beach became too much to bear. Of course, who ever
was in charge of my wardrobe had foreseen the inevitable
attraction. In the bottom drawer of my dresser was an elegantly simple
white maillot swim suit that fit me like a glove. There was also a
terry cloth beach robe and a large, floppy straw hat. I donned them
all, paused to wink at the sizzling little beach bunny who smiled back
saucily from my full length mirror and headed off for a well earned
afternoon of lounging on the crystalline sand.

It was heaven. I lay in the sun, listening to the gentle
susurration of waves caressing the shore and the distant cry of the
gulls. All my cares drifted away. I was dozing off when I felt a
shadow fall across me.

Dressed in trunks and a terry cloth robe of his own, Anthony was
smiling down at me.

"Anthony, what a pleasant surprise! What are you doing here?"

He raised a finger to his lips and grinned. "Shh! I'm am playing
truant. What is the American word?"

I shrugged and leaned back on my elbows. "Darned if I know. It's
just a word."

He matched my smile. "Hookey then. Il Maestro has been
called to Rome on some matter concerning the new spring line. He will
be back tomorrow evening. In his absence I've been left with
instructions to see that you and Signorina Jessica are well
cared for. The signorina has retired to her room for an
afternoon nap. That leaves me with no concerns but you."

It's hard not to play the part my disguise allows me.

I laid the fingertips of my left hand over my well-displayed
cleavage and assayed a `southern belle' drawl. "Why goodness
Signore. Such a handsome gentleman . . . and all to myself!"

He laughed, enjoying the by-play and suddenly his mild Italian
accent grew much broader. "Ah. Handsome?" An elegantly Romanesque
shrug. "I do not-a know about that. But a lucky fellow surely . . . to
find a nymph of-a the sea washed up on his humble beach!"

That afternoon I spent with Anthony was delightful.

He was charming. A good conversationalist. He had lots of stories
about growing up in Genoa. Like many Italians he came from a large,
extended family. And like many Italians, he loved to talk about
them. I laughed till my sides ached over tales of mad uncle Guiseppe
and his never-ending schemes to import olive oil to Germany while
avoiding the import duties. Of his brother Marco's adventures at
University that seemed to encompass everything but learning
. . . at least learning anything that could be taught in a
classroom. And of cousin Sophia and the thousand and one suitors.

Before we knew it, the sun was sinking in fire and the high mare's
tail clouds were guilded in rose and peach.

"Ah Signorina Pamela. We must go in. Dinner will be ready soon and
Chef will have our hides if we delay service of the first course."

We parted on the second floor to dress for dinner. I quickly
showered, fortified my voice with another shot of spray . . . just in
case . . . then found an exquisite off the shoulder cream-colored gown
(with Giancarlo's label, of course) and a simple linen tie for my hair
laid out on my bed.

The formal dining room, big enough to seat an infantry platoon, was
set for three. It turned out that we'd be dining intimately tonight;
just Anthony, `Jessica' and myself. I felt a positively girlish
thrill when Anthony held my chair, inclining his head in a formal
bow. It's nice to be pampered.

Josh of course quickly jerked out his own chair and seated himself
before Anthony could attend him. Josh still refused to play along with
the charade, and it was truly a pity. He was wearing a low cut, black
velvet gown and a string of pearls that perfectly accented his
complexion (and his faux freckles). His luxurious cinnamon mane
tumbled in casual abandon over his bare shoulders looking wild and
sensual. I wondered how he'd managed to achieve that carelessly
elegant effect, then realized he probably had achieved it by shaking
his head when he came out of the shower and then ignoring it
completely.

The dinner was superb. Lamb and a wild rice dish. I wouldn't care
to guess what a dinner of this quality, in such surroundings would
cost. I knew it was probably still beyond my recently elevated bank
account.

Anthony was the perfect host. If anything he was even more charming
than he'd been on the beach. He chatted brightly and intelligently on
almost any subject that came up. He even managed to draw Josh out for
a few minutes with a discussion of the Italian stock market. Suddenly
Josh realized how free he was being (and in fairness, how out of
character) and he quickly clamed back up. Anthony seemed a bit
nonplused, but I managed to distract him with a request for more
stories of his family.

Josh excused himself and retreated to the safety of his room as
soon after dessert as was polite leaving Anthony and me giggling and
chatting over brandy.

Sometime around midnight Anthony announced that since we were
working tomorrow, it was probably time to retire. I agreed,
(reluctantly . . . I can't remember when I've had such a good time at
dinner) and we headed upstairs. Anthony paused with me outside my
door, and we fell silent for a moment before saying goodnight.

I don't know why what happened next happened. Maybe I'd had too
much wine with dinner, or maybe I shouldn't have mixed the wine and
the brandy.

The urgency of Anthony's passion passed like electricity through me
and I discovered; there's a difference between sexuality and
romance.

My arms, almost of their own volition, wrapped around Anthony's
neck, drawing him close. In a moment, we were in my room. In another
moment, we were tight in each other's arms upon the huge four poster
bed.

*********

The morning dawned cool and bright with a soft breeze that smelled
of sand and salt and Asia across the bay.

Pamela stands on the balcony of her room letting the breeze caress
her flowing blonde hair and mold the silk of her peignoir against her
warm woman's body.

I had but one regret and it had nothing to do with the night that
had gone before. Anthony and I had shared something magical and
beautiful. It was nothing of a lie, or a deception, for I had truly
given myself to him, as he had given himself to me. The need to be
needed, to be cherished . . . that's not a thing of gender . . . it is
a thing of spirit . . . basic to humanity. Last night Anthony and I
had surrendered to that need with the understanding that it was both
the first and the last time for us together.

I make no apology for it . . . I feel no shame.

No. Standing here, the gentle breeze pressing against me, my only
regret is that I can't feel it's warmth against my own skin.

*********

The jet arrived at about 9:30. Giancarlo was still in Rome. He'd be
back this evening. Aboard the jet was Giancarlo's chosen photographer;
a fellow by the name of Billy Cotterwood from London. I knew of his
work, and agreed with Giancarlo's choice. Anthony introduced me to
Billy and we spent an hour or so in my room going over my presentation
graphics. Billy was very attentive and asked some excellent questions
about lighting and posing. He did have one annoying habit; he
constantly chewed on a toothpick that he occasionally used as a
pointer. But he was more than professional enough that I allowed him
that one eccentricity.

We trooped around the villa and the surrounding grounds looking for
locations and by noon, we were ready to begin.

Billy had set up in a ground floor salon for the first of the
shoots. The furnishings were elegantly rococo and 'fantastic'
. . . just the mood I was looking for. The centerpiece of the room was
a huge guilded mirror. I had a little plan that I thought would aid in
the first few shots. I'd made sure that Jessica didn't have access to
a mirror while she was dressing in the first item she was going to
model; her copy of that peignoir that had first inflamed my own
imagination. Billy set up his cameras and light reflectors and
indicated he was ready. I went and fetched Jessica . . .

. . . I can't begin to describe how she looked in that peignoir
. . .

. . . and brought her into the room. I made sure that she didn't
see the mirror, but was standing with her back to it. The toothpick
fell out of Billy's mouth and he whispered "Blimey!" I motioned to
him, he raised the camera, Jessica looked from the lens to me. I
nodded my encouragement and smiled.

"Turn around, hun."

Jessica did. She saw herself in the mirror.

I confess; part of my motivation in making Josh agree to the
deception was my desire to get a little pay-back . . . to make him
feel a bit of what it was to pretend to be something he wasn't. Hell,
to be able, for the rest of our lives to say; "Hey, remember Jessica
and the lingerie?"

I just stood, hands at my sides, and watched Jessica discover the
miracle of femininity as Billy's camera clicked. All thoughts of
pay-back and gloating evaporated. The simple dignity of what was
happening before my eyes made any of that kind of thought
impossible.

The actual shoot took six hours. It was perfect. My vision was more
than vindicated. We finished just as the sun was setting. Billy dashed
off to the fully stocked developing room and Jessica and I headed
upstairs to relax for an hour or two before dinner.

*********

We were sitting in Jessica's room when the climax of this morality
play occurred.

Once again, Jess was wearing that peignoir. We'd come full circle
through Giancarlo's new catalogue. We'd ended where we'd begun; with
the peignoir because we wanted to get the effect of the setting sun
against that shimmering rose silk.

I'll always remember that last picture; Jessica, standing on a
small bluff above the shimmering Aegean, arms angled behind her, head
tilted back, letting the gentle breeze caress her sorrel locks as she
gazed out over the water waiting for her lover's return from the
sea.

I took a sip of my own wine. "Come on Josh. I saw you looking in
the mirror. You can't deny you felt a little of the magic."

He gave me a sexy leer with Jessica's face that managed to raise my
blood pressure a few notches. "Oh hey. I'm not dead yet. I gotta
admit, I've had a woody all day that Paul Bunyan would have trouble
felling."

I favored him with a knowing grin. "You know that's not what I
mean."

There was a long silence as Jess stared into the depths of her wine
glass. "PJ . . . I . . . I've been thinking about what you said to me
. . . when we were in the kitchen that night that I first put on this
. . . " A little gesture to the body that reclined encased in the
luscious silk. "I just want to say . . . I may have been . . . "

I didn't find out just what he may have been because at that
moment, the door to the room flew open and in raced Giancarlo. Jess
had just enough time to draw herself up in the chair and regain her
modesty by closing her legs before Giancarlo was on his knees in
adoration before her.

"Ah . . . carrissima . . . the pictures! I have seen them!"
He grabbed a hand and began showering it with kisses. "You are
. . .(kiss) . . . you make . . .(kiss) " He was beginning to work his
way up her arm. "Never in my life . . . such beauty (kiss) . . . such
passion (kiss, on her upper arm by now) . . . Oh . . . (kiss on the
shoulder)"

By now Giancarlo's hands were on Jess's waist and his expression
was one of absolute religious transport. "You make-a the fire in me
burn bright. You make-a the man in me roar with desire."

This was getting serious, but it was also too comical for
words. When Kevin Sprague had violated me, it had been a viscous,
animal attack. But this little gnome slobbering over Jessica
. . . This was comic opera, not crime drama. I started to giggle. I
couldn't help it. Jess's look of pleading turned to one of incipient
anger . . . which quickly vanished as she felt the material of her
skirt start to slide up her legs.

"Whoa! Now wait just a second! If you think . . . " There was a
little squeak of panic as she felt Giancarlo's tongue on her knee
. . . her thigh . . .

"Oh . . I must-a have you. I must-a . . . oooooh"

Giancarlo's head was between Jessica's thighs. Jessica had both
hands up beside her head, waving them in mortal dread at what was
about to occur. I was gagging on suppressed laughter, biting my lower
lip for all I was worth.

And then it happened.

*********

To the Wonderful Folks at Nu-Gen,

Your magical suits are everything you've ever claimed. The illusion
of femininity that they create are "art" in the truest sense of the
word; their lovely curves . . . their soft silky skin and satiny hair
. . . the honey music of their voices. Truly, you work a miracle every
time you create one of these sorceresses.

But gentlemen . . . there are five senses, not three. You have
artfully catered to sight, touch and hearing.

You could have cut the sudden stillness with a knife. Jessica was
the first to shatter the tableaux.

She pointed an accusing finger at Giancarlo and shrieked, "You're
not Italian!"

Giancarlo leveled his own finger at Jessica's crotch and shouted
"And you ain't . . . you ain't . . . I don't know what you ain't!"

The true story finally emerged over the next few minutes, but not
without a lot of shouting, shrieking (from both genders) and
recriminations and accusations.

Giancarlo was in fact one Joey Carletti, native son of that most
exotic of cities; Hoboken, New Jersey and until twenty eight years
ago, apprentice clothing buyer for his father's small time men's
store. It was at that time that Joey had finally done something about
his belief that he had a talent for designing clothes. His submission
to a cut rate men's clothing maker had vindicated his belief, and the
die was cast for his eventual meteoric rise to fame, and his eventual
adoption of a more . . . 'suitable' nom-de-guerre.

Jessica . . . well . . . it was impossible to continue the
charade. The fatal flaw of the I2000S had reared its ugly head
. . . so to speak . . . and though Josh made a valiant attempt to
regroup and continue the deception . . . it was eventually for
naught. He was too rattled.

Besides . . . it wasn't necessary.

I let them both flail for a moment then I spilled the beans and
told the whole truth. Josh uttered a shriek of dismay, but I stilled
him with an upraised hand. I calmly pointed out that each of us was
guarding a hidden truth and it was in all of our best interests to
keep each other's secrets. After all . . . if word got out that
W,N&A had pulled this stunt, it would be our ruin . . . and if
word got out that the deception had worked on Giancarlo . . . nee
Joey Carletti (!) . . . who would be served?

It took a while, but finally Giancarlo saw the wisdom of my
suggestion. He pledged secrecy in exchange for Josh's mutual promise
and a significant decrease in our fees. Josh gave the latter
willingly. From the first, it had been more about prestige than about
profit (Profit that would eventually follow the prestige anyway.) And
Giancarlo had to admit, even with the deception, the photos were
exactly what was needed for the ad campaign. We parted on this uneasy
truce.

My last sight of the great Giancarlo of Venice was his suspicious,
uncertain frown as he stalked out of Jessica's bedroom.

*********

It was several weeks later when I was sitting in my studio reading
one of my woman's magazines that the door opened and Josh quietly
entered.

We'd long since consigned Jessica to a dark corner of Josh's
closet. I had a slightly melancholy idea that I'd never see that
lovely woman "in the flesh" again. Life can be very cruel
sometimes.

Josh closed the door behind himself and perched on the corner of my
desk. He sat there for a moment, head down on his chest, lost in his
thoughts. I just looked at him. I've catalogued his faults elsewhere
and I see no need to repeat them here. He's a good man for all of
them. He's my brother and I love him. In his own way, I think he loves
me too.

"PJ . . . I've been thinking."

"About what Josh?"

"About that conversation we had that night when I first . . . you
know . . . when you told me about your . . . feelings . . . about
. . . "

"Josh. I didn't mean everything I said. I was just . . . "

He held up a hand, but still wouldn't look in my eyes. "Look. This
isn't easy for me, okay? I just wanted to tell you; When I was Jessica
. . . that day we took the pictures. I guess . . . " Finally he met my
eyes. "I don't pretend to understand it all PJ. But you were right
about something at least."

"And that is . . . ?"

"That you can always learn something new about yourself . . . if
you're willing to try." Then he grinned and shook his fist at me. "And
if you ever tell anyone about any of this . . . even this conversation
. . . I'll beat the crap out of you! And you know I can!"

We shared a smile, and then he was gone.

I sighed happily and went back to my magazine. Josh had nothing to
worry about. I'd never breathe a word to anyone.

I didn't need to.

There on page 36 of one of the largest woman's journals, Jessica
stood on a small bluff overlooking the Aegean, quietly longing for her
lover's embrace as the warm sea breeze fanned her passion and the
caption extolled the virtue of Giancarlo of Venice and his glorious
lingerie.